


The Legendary Takers

by callmelyss



Series: The Stranger That You Keep [4]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ben POV, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Feelings, First Kiss, Force Ghosts, Light Side AU, M/M, Teenagers, That's Not How The Force Works, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: There was a time when he would have believed that implicitly, that his father was all he needed to stand between him and the ills of the universe. He still wants to, wants to think it’s as simple as Han Solo facing down the monsters in the night, their cruel claws and greedy eyes. But he’s felt Snoke, the magnitude of him, ancient and practiced and so, so powerful, almost too much even for Luke, and Snoke might only be the beginning, the first predator attracted to whatever poison remains inside him.What is one smuggler on one small, battered freighter to the Dark Side?—TheFalconmakes an unplanned stop. Ben feels a call to the Light—and the Dark.





	The Legendary Takers

**Author's Note:**

> The next installment of the stowaway 'verse.

Two months. 

There was a time when that would have seemed like an eternity. When Ben was young and his mother departed for another diplomatic mission. When Han left for a job. When the rainy reason started on Chandrila, and it would be weeks before he could play outside again. 

Later, with Luke, time became softer. Elastic. Like candy abandoned in the sun. One day blended easily into next and the next until months had passed. The time there did drag sometimes. When he struggled with his lessons, failing to grasp some essential aspect of the Force. When he waited for his father to visit. Or, more rarely, his mother. And there were days when he thought he would never be free to leave the Temple again, like he would never see the rest of the galaxy, trapped on that same green hill on that same small moon forever.

 _Wishes_ , his mother told him once, _are sweeter than realities_.

Then, there may have never been a longer two days than those when he waited for his father, _after_. After he burned his shorn padawan’s braid in the bonfire and he sat by the coals until it got dark and didn’t speak with anyone, his classmates too frightened to approach him and he too wounded to talk to Luke. 

But he’s sure there have never been shorter months than these past two, the time running through his hands as insubstantial, as elusive, as starlight. It had seemed like enough when his father suggested it, that he would be ready to see his mother after that. He’s spoken to her in the interim, short conversations, her voice always deliberate, gentle—he can hear the measured quality of it. Everything she doesn’t say, doesn’t ask.

She loves him, he knows. It’s never been about that. 

Only, he failed her. He failed all of them, but especially her.

“Hey,” Armitage says. “It’s your bet.”

“Right, sorry.” Ben startles out of his woolgathering. “What was yours again?”

“Five more curse words, ideally not in Shyriiwook this time. I think I scandalized Chewbacca,” he tells him. Wry, but patient. Or he sounds it. Ben can’t see the expression on his face. 

They’re sitting back-to-back in the booth, sabacc cards in hand. It’s a compromise playing this way: Armitage can’t see his terrible sabacc face, giving away everything, and in turn, Ben doesn’t read his thoughts (although he wouldn’t). An even playing field, or more so. Fair. Of course, there’s the added benefit of Armitage touching him, still rare outside the bunk, the warm press of him from nape to sacrum. He does occasionally jab Ben with a bony shoulder blade or an elbow when he moves, but that’s okay.

“A question,” he decides of his bet, reviewing his hand. They stopped using chips the second or third game; it didn’t make sense to stake credits, especially when they have few of their own. Instead, they exchange what they _can_ offer each other: information, all kinds. Confessions. Stories about their lives. Opinions on books, holodramas. Subjects they favor. He never thought he’d demand to know more about subspace physics, but hearing Armitage explain it, animated, enthusiastic, was worth it. 

Ben can feel him hesitate behind him, the quick expansion of his lungs as he inhales. An unspecified question means something personal. It’s also the most valuable thing they offer each other, seldom wagered. And true, Armitage has been more forthcoming since Nori. But it’s still easier to ask this way, when he understands that he can fold, can refuse. He has in the past, has closed up again. Often that’s a prelude to the days when his face goes blank, and he tucks himself into his bunk for most of the cycle, reading about ships, and they all know to leave him be.

But he’s been in a good mood today. Didn’t have such vivid dreams last night. Helped Chewie run diagnostics on the power core earlier (with Ben translating). He’s slowly picking up Shyriiwook; he still almost always replies to Chewie in Basic, but he’s learned the more common words and instructions, as well as some mechanical jargon.

And no, Ben hadn’t meant to get him into trouble by teaching him how to say “ground-fucker,” one of the most vulgar insults on Kashyyyk. But it _was_ funny to hear him shout it at the compensators.

“Fold?” he asks. Trying to keep his tone somewhere between teasing and understanding. 

“No,” Armitage replies, sounding stubborn. _Competitive_. “Call.”

They play out the round, and each reveals his cards. Ben smiles, triumphant, when he sees he’s succeeded. It was a good hand: +7, -3, -4, +2, -2.

“Ready?” If he’s not, Ben won’t press him, will ask him something easy like what his favorite color is (light blue) or how many ships he’s lived on (seven, counting the _Falcon_ ).

“Go ahead.”

“Do you have a last name?” He’s been carrying this one for a while, wondering. Not that it’s so important, that it would change anything, but he can sense Armitage avoiding the topic sometimes. He’s told them more about the Academy, the everyday cruelties that still make Ben shudder, but he’s been careful to avoid the specifics of his life before then. The hidden shadow of something, something with blood in its teeth, sits beneath the surface. His name, Ben thinks, is part of that. 

Armitage tenses immediately in response to the question, his back stiffening against Ben’s, breaths coming faster but shallow. His desire to flee ricochets between them, clear in the Force, even though he's trying not to listen. Strong emotions can be like that, too intense to block out, and the nightmares still come through so distinctly Ben often wakes up before they start. 

He almost takes the question back—regrets asking—but then there’s a subtle shift, Armitage’s right shoulder moving against his left, and Ben drops his arm down in response. Finds the hand waiting there, reaching blindly for his. Feels more than hears him sigh when he laces their fingers together and squeezes.

These minutes might go on indefinitely, but he doesn’t care, would wait years, holding Armitage’s hand until he can answer. Even if he never does.

“Hux,” he says finally. Voice quiet. “It’s Hux. My father’s name.”

And Ben’s never heard the word _father_ said quite like that, so wretched, like the word itself bruises. With irritation, yes, and scorn and disappointment. Has said it, in fact, just that way. But never so bleak. Pained. Loathing. He rubs his thumb over Armitage’s hand. _Thank you for telling me_ , he pushes into that touch. _Thank you for trusting me_.

“But if you could—not—I don’t—“ he stumbles. Trying to say: _Please,_ _I don’t want to be called that_.

“You’re Armitage to us,” Ben reassures him. He laughs, thinking of the different nicknames Chewie has for him, most of them unflattering. His favorite is the name of a small, russet arboreal shrew notorious for its aggression. “Or Red, I guess.”

He squeezes Ben’s hand. Gratitude clear from the gesture. “I’m Armitage to _you_ ,” he corrects. There’s more than his name in it. And that—

Well, he’s glad he can’t see his face, at least.

They go back to playing sabacc then, which is also part of the rules. Occasionally, it’s been necessary to linger on a topic. When Armitage asked him to explain the Dark Side, they abandoned the game for the remainder of the cycle, and Ben left him to meditate after, feeling brittle. Dreading that he would hear Snoke’s voice when he closed his eyes. 

He’s had a few days of his own when he needed to hide in his bunk. Has woken up, thrashing, from his share of bad dreams. Pressed his face against Armitage’s neck while he held him, stroking his hair and murmuring comforting nonsense. 

(He’s going to have to tell his mother he’s _afraid_.) 

“I wager forty lines of Imperial poetry,” Ben says during the last phase of betting. It’s a favorite request of his since he learned Armitage had to memorize the epics when he was younger. Most of them are overwrought attempts at propaganda, but he excels at recitations, certainly has the voice for it, and, best of all, is prone to editorializing. “The really awful stuff.”

Armitage stays quiet, thinking. He’s relaxed again, breathing slowed, the panic dissipated as quickly as it came this time. Then: “I wager a kiss.” 

Ben almost drops his cards. “What?”

“A kiss,” he repeats. Voice _almost_ neutral, although there’s a note of self-satisfaction in it. “If I win, that’s what I get. Unless you fold?”

He can hear the challenge, the provocation, but the out is there, too, if he wants it.

He swallows; his mouth is Tatooine-dry suddenly. “I—no. Um. I call.”

He barely notices the rest of the game, the dice rolls and the drawing. Completely bungles his hand. Not on purpose, definitely not. Just because. _A kiss_.

True, they share a bed by mutual, if unspoken, agreement. He wakes up holding him or being held most days. He’s kissed his hair or his hand, usually when they’re both half-awake. Touches him freely the rest of the time, which he doesn’t seem to mind and may even appreciate on occasion; he can be skittish about hugs. Armitage, for his part, is less tactile outside the bunk, although he’s become more willing to reciprocate in recent weeks, to hold Ben's hand or lean against his shoulder. But it’s friendly, not—they _haven’t—_ and he hasn’t expected them to, understanding what he does about his life before. 

He lays down his cards. Unsurprisingly, Armitage’s hand is far better: +9, -4, -3, -2, +1.

“I win,” he says. And no mistaking it now; he’s pleased with himself.

“Right.” Ben coughs. He turns to find Armitage watching him, one leg tucked under him. He’s not quite smirking, but it’s a near thing. His eyes shine, clear green today. They tend to change with his moods. “So.” 

He scoots closer, head tilted. Waiting. “So.”

And stars know he wants to kiss him. _Has_ wanted to since that first night, when he found him skulking around the _Falcon_ searching for food, desperate and frightened, but somehow still fierce, clever, proud, the essential parts of him undiminished by the circumstances, by any of it. And that was before Ben had known what he’d endured to get there. Before he had chased away his nightmares and had his own scattered in turn. Before he had seen the way his expression lights up when he talks about ships or navigational computing or the theories behind hyperspace tracking. 

And now he’s asking, demanding really, that Ben kiss him. Lips full, soft-looking, slightly parted. Right there. 

He leans in, heart thudding, and it’s a short distance. Just inches, but. Armitage’s eyelashes flutter. He’s so close, warm and real.

At the last second, Ben changes the angle and presses his lips against his cheek instead, catching only the corner of his mouth. He feels his own face flush as he withdraws again, already chastising himself, ducking his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes.

He had _asked_ , after all this time and—

Armitage shifts next to him. Ben glances up.

He’s blushing, too. Even darker than he normally does, the color spreading down his neck beneath the collar of his T-shirt, and for a sinking moment, Ben thinks he might be angry, the red is that deep. He _does_ chance looking with the Force, worried he might have offended him, but finds Armitage isn’t upset at all, nothing like the sharp flare of his temper, which he’s seen, usually directed at machinery. A silvery feeling bubbles through him instead, and— _oh_.

He liked it. Being kissed on the cheek. Hasn’t been before.

Ben flushes harder. He won’t pry any more than that, slams his defenses up so fast he trembles, and slides away on the bench, avoiding his eyes. It’s all he can do not to raise his fingertips to his lips, the thrill of contact still buzzing there. All he can do not to drop another kiss on his cheek, his nose, his eyelids, wherever he can reach. To ask Armitage to kiss him, too, _please_ , anywhere he likes. The sabacc cards forgotten on the table.

“I—“ Ben has no idea what the rest of that sentence is.

Luckily or unluckily, he doesn’t need to; the proximity alert shrills from the cockpit, startling them both. But it’s much too early for them to be at Chandrila, he thinks, just before the _Falcon_ makes a hard turn and everything _lurches_. 

Ben catches himself inches from the floor with the Force; he stretches out one hand to stop Armitage before he’s flung over the Dejarik table. He yelps in surprise to find himself hovering midair, cushioned by seemingly nothing.

“Thanks,” he says when Ben lowers him carefully onto his feet. He braces both hands against a wall when the ship tilts again.

“Hang on!” Han calls.

“Thanks for the warning!” Ben yells back. “What’s going on?”

“ _We’ve got company,_ ” Chewie roars. “ _Might need a hand up here._ ”

“We don’t need a—“ Han begins to say, quieter. Then, he curses in a jumble of Basic, Shyriiwook, and Old Corellian and shouts: “Okay, could definitely use a hand!”

Ben and Armitage run to the cockpit, in step. Through the viewport, he can see that they’re definitely _not_ near Chandrila, are instead flying above a violet-colored gas giant he doesn’t recognize. Half a dozen ships—cobbled-together hack jobs, an amalgam of parts and rust and spiked armor, almost certainly pirate ships—are diving toward the _Falcon_ and opening fire. Han takes the ship into a corkscrew, evading half of them, but the rest make contact.

“Kriff,” he spits as the shots hit the shield, rattling the hull underneath. “Chewie—“ 

“ _Going._ ” He climbs out of the co-pilot seat and moves past them, disappearing down the ladder to the ventral laser cannon. 

“Dad—“ Ben says. 

“Berate me later,” he tells him. Another volley connects with the shields. “Listen, Ben—I’m going to need you to fly her.”

“ _What?_ ” 

“You can do it. Here.” His father grabs his hand and guides it to the controls, steadying the ship as he slides past him, heading for the dorsal cannon. “Red, you’re co-pilot. Might also need you to put out some fires. Maybe literally.”

“O-okay,” Armitage stammers and buckles into the seat next to Ben.

“Stick to evasive maneuvers, Ben!” Han yells. “Chewie and I will take our shots. You just try and keep us clear of their fire, understand?”

And he wants to protest, to say that he can’t do this—he’s too out of practice, doesn’t have enough flight hours, and he’s never flown in a firefight before—but the _Falcon_ ’s controls feel familiar in his hands. Some of his earliest memories are of sitting in this seat, first in his father’s lap, then later on his own, Han’s easy grip on his shoulders, guiding him. He knows her, knows the stomach-dropping way she can turn and spiral, how to eke out just a little bit more speed at the right moment. Never demanding—she doesn’t respond well to orders—just asking. 

There had been a time when this was all he wanted, nothing more complicated than piloting the fastest ship in the galaxy, like his father did.  

He brings the _Falcon_ into a tight dive, avoiding another round of cannon fire from the attacking ships. They’re not big, probably succeed in taking down prey by swarming larger vessels with their increased mobility. No doubt they have souped-up engines, fuel bypasses, every modification to make them fast. Based on the angle of the shots, they’re not heavily gunned or armored. They can’t be to maintain those high speeds.

They’re fast, okay. But the _Falcon_ is faster. 

“On our left,” Armitage says, as two of the group break off, most likely to get behind them.

“I see them.” Ben considers trying to outrun them but thinks better of it and makes a hard turn, charging them instead. Twists the controls at the last minute to give Chewie a good angle on the lead craft. It bursts apart in a spray of metal and released energy from the ignited coaxium.

He lets out a whoop. 

“Is that what you call an evasive maneuver?” Han barks. Then, pride evident in his voice: “Nice flying, kid. Don’t—”

“I know, I know! Don’t get cocky.”

The next ships are already on them now, parting to surround the _Falcon,_ and as they get closer, he can see the grapplers installed along their bellies; they’re too small for tractor beams. It’s a nasty operation, whatever it is. Ben moves to wind his way between them, but they take several hits to the shields as he does. A warning indicator screeches to life on the console. 

“ _The motivator_ ,” Chewie calls. “ _Red will need to get into the rear floor panels_.”

“On it,” Armitage says once Ben’s hurried out a translation; he ducks out of the cockpit and runs to the back. There’s the sound of clanging metal.

Ben takes the _Falcon_ in a wide arc, shouting instructions for Chewie as he does.

“Do what with the fuel line?” Armitage yells, voice muffled.

They go through another sharp turn, and one of the attacking ships almost bounces off the hull. “Reroute it!” Ben shouts. Then to no one in particular: “This isn’t an effective system!”

Han takes out a second craft in a flash of laser fire, and it explodes. The remaining four regroup and come around for another attack. Ben drops the _Falcon_ below them, darting forward before they can adjust. They catch up with him quickly, however, and there is, again, the tell-tale shaking as the remaining shields and armor absorb the blasts.

“Okay!” Armitage says. “Rerouted!”

Sparks fly off the cockpit console, and smoke starts to roll out from under it. “Good job!” Ben tells him. Fervent. Meaning it, before he adds: “But I think something’s on fire up here. Literally.”

He hurries over with the extinguisher, puts it out in a gust of sodium bicarbonate. “ _Kriff_.”

“Dad!” Ben rasps. Voice raw from smoke and overuse. “There’s too many of them.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna have to make a jump. We’ll try to buy some time. Keep flying; you’re doing fine.” Another burst of laser fire streaks out from the _Falcon_ , sending one of the pirates spinning off balance. “Red, you up there? Gonna need you to engage the hyperdrive.”

Armitage leans over Ben’s shoulder from behind him, accessing the computer. “Ready!”

Han rattles off a series of coordinates.

“That’s not Chandrila!” Ben shouts back. “It’s in the other direction.”

“Don’t argue with me, Ben,” Han yells. 

“Calculating,” Armitage interrupts. “Sixty seconds until jump!”

Ben weaves around the approaching ships, no longer concerned with enabling a counterattack or even evading the barrage of laser fire, but only buying them time until the hyperdrive can find the fastest, clearest route and get them out of here. The last thing he sees through the viewport before they make the jump is the remaining ships, debris rotating slowly around them in space. The wreckage of a third, larger vessel drifts into view, and then everything disappears in endless streaks of light.

Armitage drops heavily into the seat behind him and releases what sounds like a long-held breath. “What the hells was the that?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Ben says, darkly, twisting out of the pilot’s seat. He scowls as Han and Chewie enter the cockpit.  

“You two okay?” Han is asking. He grabs Ben’s shoulders, looking him over, inspecting him for injuries. “That was some damn good flying. And some damn good co-piloting, Red.”

Ben breaks his grip and moves away, although it’s a challenge in the cramped space. He’s half-squeezed behind the co-pilot’s chair now. “We’re fine. Now what the kriff is going on?”

“ _Ben_ —“ Chewie reproaches him.

“It’s okay,” Han says. He leans over the console and punches a few buttons, muttering to himself as he does so, before he turns back to them. “Yes, we were making a detour in the colonies.”

“Another job?” Ben asks. Wishing he could just be angry, wishing his voice didn’t sound so fractured, so small. A child’s voice. Wishing, too, that he didn’t have to be angry _or_ hurt, that they could avoid this part, when it stops being enough, the _Falcon_ and Han and Chewie. When he remembers not to trust him. They’ve been courting it for weeks, an accumulation of minor letdowns followed by the inevitable quick explosions of his temper. And it’s too familiar, this being annoyed with his father, disappointed in him, an easy pattern for them. Even though.

 _Han came to get him_. It’s still true; he’d been there when he needed him. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

He rubs the back of his neck. Winces. “Yeah, kid. Another job.”

“And the pirates?”

“I dunno,” Han admits. “Didn’t recognize the ships. Never heard from ‘em either. Looks like they took out our contact. Could’ve been someone after us, could’ve been someone just after them. That’s why—“

“Where are we going?” Ben interrupts.

“Somewhere in the Mid-Rim, yes?” Armitage hazards. 

“That’s right. Need to make some repairs. And see an old friend about this, see what she can tell us.” Han studies Ben, thoughtful. “I’ll get in touch with your mom, let her know.”

“And what lie are you going to tell her?” The words are out before he can stifle them and worse, yes, is that part of him doesn’t _want_ to, wants to fling every accusation he can at his father now.

“ _Red_ ,” Chewie says before Han can answer. “ _Help me in the back, okay?_ ”

Armitage doesn’t ask what he means—must understand because he follows him out of the cockpit without question. Touches Ben’s shoulder as he leaves. 

When they’ve gone, Han sinks into the pilot’s seat with a quiet groan. “Come up here, huh?” he asks.

Ben pauses before moving to the co-pilot’s seat. Thinks of the morning they talked about what happened at the Temple. It had been a relief, the chance to tell his father anything and being met with, if not complete understanding, then acceptance. It had seemed like enough, too, having a safe haven in him and the _Falcon_. Had  _been_ enough for this short while, these two quick months.

“You’re pissed at me,” Han says, not looking at him, as he enters commands into the ship’s computer. There’s some warmth to it. Affection. Ben opens his mouth to argue. “No, it’s okay. I get why.” 

“It wasn’t—spice, was it?” Of everything his father’s smuggled, he dislikes that the most. It has a sickly feeling in the Force, users always shrouded in a haze of umber.

He raises both eyebrows. “Would you believe me if I said no?” At Ben’s silence, he adds, “It was medicine. There’s been an outbreak of wasting disease in that system. Colonists can’t afford the mark-ups, and some creative types have been skimming from the manufacturer. We were delivering it for a reasonable fee.” 

“Is that true?” He hates asking. Hates that he can’t just believe him. That angers him as much as the rest of it. They sting him—his doubts, his fears—and there’s that old churning, that shadow at the core of him, diluted but not yet destroyed. It's not Snoke; it's whatever invited Snoke in.

“You can have a look in the cargo bay if you like. Or use the Force,” Han says mildly. “I’m sorry anyway. I should have taken us straight to Chandrila. You want to see your mom, get off this rig for a while, I’m sure.” He offers him a crooked smile, then goes back to punching keys on the console. 

Ben blinks; his eyelashes stick. _That isn’t it_ , he could say. _I would stay here, you and me and Chewie and Armitage, if I thought, if I_ knew— “Right, yeah.” He can feel his father’s attention, his curiosity, like a gentle hand on the back of his neck. But he doesn't ask.

“It’ll be a few hours before we leave hyperspace,” he tells him. “You and Red ought to check yourselves over with the medical scanner, just to be sure. And rest up before we land.”

“Right.” He moves to go. Exhaustion settles heavily over him as he does, adrenaline fading. Maybe some rest isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it’s a good time to hide in his bunk, too. Rawness unfurls in his chest, pain rippling out from the epicenter of it. Nothing the medical scanner will find, the wound deeper than that, half-healed and still vulnerable.

“And Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“That really was some damn good flying.”

 

* * *

  

They drop out of hyperspace above a small green and blue planet Ben almost recognizes. “Is that—?”

“ _Takodana_ ,” Chewie confirms in a happy rumble. “ _Home of the pirate queen_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Han says. “An old friend of ours lives here,” he explains to Armitage.  

Maz Kanata, Ben remembers. He has a blurry memory of meeting her when he was very young, before he went to study with Luke. She hadn’t been the first person to comment on the strength of his connection to the Force, but she was the only one, other than his parents, who had looked _sad_ about it. It had given her a gray halo, and that had reminded him of his mother.   

“ _You’re only jealous she likes me better,”_ Chewie is saying, smug, as he helps navigate them through the atmosphere.

 _“_ Like hells I am.” 

He glances over at Armitage. He’s been quiet since the fight—well, they both have—and Ben isn’t sure that this isn’t the beginning of one of his withdrawn periods. He wouldn’t blame him, if so, although his attention is currently fixed out the viewport as the vivid swath of water and vegetation below rises up to meet them. The hard edge of what might be anxiety and what might be anticipation runs through him and resounds in Ben.

“You don’t have to leave the ship if you don’t want to,” he reassures him. Thinking of Nori Station and what had happened there, how he had come back bleeding and bruised and pale.

“No, I think—I think I’d like to.” Armitage drags his gaze away from the viewport to look at Ben. Smiles, just a little, eyes bright. He’s _excited_ , he realizes. Hasn’t set foot on many planets, and all of those he has seen were rough worlds on the Outer Rim. 

He smiles back.

“Should be safe enough with Maz,” Han tells them. “Not that there aren’t eyes here, like everywhere, but no one will lay a hand on you.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Ben says. His hand goes to the lightsaber on his belt; he’d gotten it from his bunk after the jump to hyperspace, wanting it, the weight of it on his hip. Something thrills through him and him alone, he thinks, as Maz’s castle comes into view, although he can’t place the source of it. If the Force is trying to relay a message, it’s obscure. But this place—there’s no mistaking its presence is strong here, layered thicker than mortar between the stones of the fortress. 

“Of course you can,” Han says absently as he brings the ship down.

The _Falcon_ lands in a scrubby dirt clearing surrounded by young trees and new growth; she settles with a shudder. Steam hisses out behind them and durasteel rattles and falls free somewhere in the cargo bay. The ship is going to need some work before she’ll fly well again.  

“ _I’ll get started on the motivator_ ,” Chewie volunteers. “ _And the shield arrays. We should do that first.”_

“No, I’ll do it. You go ahead and greet Maz with the boys, okay?” Han says. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“ _She’s probably not still angry with you, Han.”_

For what, Ben definitely doesn’t want to know. But then, most people in the galaxy seem to have strong opinions about his father one way or another. Not many neutral parties where Han Solo is concerned.

“She likes you better, though, like you said. Go on. I’ll be right there.”

They follow Chewie off the ship. “ _Stay close_ ,” he cautions them. “ _And don’t stare._ ”

“Yes, Uncle Chewie,” Ben replies, dutifully. He turns to translate for Armitage but finds he’s still standing on the cargo ramp.

He jogs back to him, is surprised to see his eyes are closed. He thought that he’d want to look around, but maybe it’s too much, too overwhelming to take it in all at once. “You okay?”

Armitage doesn’t respond right away, only draws in a long breath through his nose, inhaling deeply. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, more to himself than Ben. “That’s what it smells like.” When he opens his eyes, they’re greener than ever, reflecting the leaves and the grass and the mountains. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

They follow Chewie through the courtyard, past the statue of Maz, her arms outstretched, and the cacophony of brilliant banners hanging over the entrance. The energy of the place thrums under Ben’s feet, ancient and aware, reaching up for him as it must have reached for so many over the centuries. Generations of Jedi and other Force-sensitives have been through this courtyard, their voices murmuring like water on the stone. And he won’t be a Jedi—he’s resolved to tell Leia that when he sees her, whatever that makes him—but he’s one of them all the same, someone who can feel the infinite connections spooling out from this spot.

There’s the drone, too, of collected consciousnesses behind the castle doors, and he remembers that it’s been some time before he’s stood in the thick of a crowd before he steps inside. Nori Station had been somewhat like this: wave upon wave of sentient thought and emotion coming at him, knocking him flat in the surf. It’s stronger now, though, amplified by the energy already here—warm, mineral, rich—and he stumbles for a moment, disoriented in the past and present and possibly the future, he’s too overcome to tell, every shade of emotion washing through him, bowling him over with rage and joy and disappointment and heartbreak and hope.

He’s out of practice. Had been sheltered at the Temple, protected while he learned. This is more like when he was younger and he couldn’t distinguish his feelings from those around him.

He’s rubbing between his eyes in anticipation of the headache that will come next when he feels a brush of knuckles skimming down his arm, the bump of a hand against the back of his. Armitage lingers with him in the entryway, their shoulders not quite touching. He offers Ben his hand, palm tilted just outward. 

He shoots him a grateful look before he takes it. Everything _hushes_ when he does, and for a moment, he’s stunned, thinking, _but Armitage isn’t_ , and he’s not, not Force-sensitive, not at all. He probably doesn't even realize what he’s done. It’s _him_ , though, the cool quiet of him, his calm spreading through Ben as easily as his fear and anger sometimes do. Because the crowd doesn’t bother Armitage; he’s accustomed to confined spaces full of people. He’s somewhat unsure of the different sentients here, isn’t used to seeing them all in one place and is worried, as always, that it might happen again, what happened on Nori. But he’s also still thinking about the smell, the taste of the air outside and the feeling of sunlight on his skin. Is lending that to Ben without knowing it.

They weave their way through the activity—negotiations and raucous games and people calling for drinks—and Ben half wonders how they’re even going to find Maz Kanata. Then, a strong voice shouts, “Chewbacca! _There’s_ my boyfriend.” Shutting up the crowd for a moment.  

Maz had been about his height the last he’d seen her, or more accurately, he had been hers, and it’s somewhat of a shock to see the diminutive, orange form that flings herself at his uncle, who catches her in his long arms and enfolds her in what is, to Ben's mind, one of the galaxy’s greatest gifts: a Wookiee hug.

“It’s like grabbing a cloud,” she muses, wistful, to no one in particular when he sets her back on her feet. “But what brings you here? And where is your scoundrel of a partner?”

“ _It’s a long story_ ,” Chewie says. “ _Han can tell you. He’ll be here soon. But first, Maz, this is—”_

“Ben Solo. It’s been a long time.” Maz’s focus lands on him. Fresh-turned earth. Spring rain. A butterfly alighting on his nose. It’s like the castle. It _is_ the castle; her connection to the Force and the long years she’s spent here have shaped the water and the stones and even the smallest, tenderest shoots springing from the ground, coaxing them toward the Light. “Let me look at you.”

She climbs up onto a chair to peer at him through the thick lenses of her goggles. “It’s been an eventful year, hasn’t it?” she asks. “But you’ve done well. You managed what few could. There’s still more to face, I’m afraid. Although you won’t be alone—and who is this?”

He is, Ben realizes, still holding Armitage’s hand. He draws him forward, remembering his manners, his mother's manners. “Maz, this is Armitage. He’s—crew on the _Falcon_ now. Armitage, this is Maz Kanata, the pirate queen.”

“No one’s called me that in an age or two,” Maz demurs. To Armitage, she says: “Come closer, boy. I don’t bite except by request.” 

He hesitates for a moment before leaning down, expression wary. Jumps when Maz adjusts her goggles, her pupils growing huge, distorted, behind them. Frowns when she pushes them off her face altogether, peering at him with eyes that have seen the revolutions of millennia.

Ben glances at Chewie, concerned, but he only shrugs. 

“Oh, child,” she says finally. “That’s quite a story you have.” She reaches up to pat Armitage’s cheek. She adds, looking at Ben, meaningful: “I can see why.”

 _Why what_ , he won't ask.

“Now,” she says. If she notices his lack of response, she doesn’t mention it. “Let’s get you all food and something to drink. And Han, you can stop skulking back there. I saw you come in. All is forgiven. This time.”

 

* * *

 

They sit at one of the long tables, eating from massive platters of fruit and vegetables and bread as Han recounts what happened, describing the ships that attacked them down to the different craft from which they’d been assembled. “A few of them had old TIE parts, Maz. Sound like anyone you know?”

“I can think of some possibilities. Might take a cycle or two to find out for certain.” She frowns. “But you have reason to believe they might be after more than your ship or your cargo?” 

Ben turns to stare at his father.  “What do you mean?” he asks at the same time Armitage says, “I don’t think—“

“Now, hey,” Han interrupts, waving a hand. “Listen. It might be nothing. Plenty of people see the _Falcon_ on their scanners and want to take a shot at her. Especially people who’d build their ships out of old TIEs. But we should be sure before we go anywhere, especially the Core.”

“Does Leia know about this?” Maz asks.

“She knows some,” he allows. Shooting a look at Ben and Armitage. “There’s more to it, though. Unfinished business. Players we don’t know yet. They’re still in the shadows.”

 _Snoke_ , Ben understands, cold sweeping through him. _He doesn’t just mean whoever’s behind the Academy might be after Armitage. He means Snoke could be after me, too_.

He hasn’t heard him in the Force since Luke severed their connection, cauterized it as neatly as if he’d used his lightsaber. But he remembers it, that gelid voice directing him to embrace his destiny, take what was always his, his _by_ _right_ , by blood. He’s safe from him by that route, he thinks, but he hadn’t considered the more mundane ways Snoke might continue to seek him. Take him against his will, if necessary.

“You can tell her,” Armitage says. Breaking the unsettled silence that’s fallen over them. “Both of them. Senator Organa, too.” His leg is jigging under the table, all anxiety, and Ben’s twitches in sympathy. 

“Yeah,” Ben agrees. “Whatever helps.”

“They're long stories. Might take a while,” Han observes. “If you two wanted to have a look around—“

It’s an out, of course. They don’t have to sit here and relive it all, to speculate about the ways in which it might not be over, they might not be safe. His father's offering to do that for them. But it’s also an opportunity to walk outside with Armitage under the trees and by the lake. To get a break from the buzzing in his head, muted but still there, and Maz’s scrutiny, gentle, kind, but too much with the rest of it prickling at him and the memory of Snoke as well. Strange, uncomfortable, to be around another Force-sensitive now.

“ _Yes_.” Armitage stands quickly. Not eager to linger over this conversation either. Or just maybe wanting to explore. “I mean—if you want to, Ben.”

"Sure."

“Stay close to the castle,” Han cautions them. 

“ _And don’t talk to any strangers_ ,” Chewie adds.

Not _bad_ advice, of course. Ben winces. Late, but not bad.

“Keep to the path,” Maz finishes. “And the sunny spots, Ben Solo.”

He follows close on Armitage’s heels out into the fresh air. Breathes deep and lets out a sigh, dispelling some of the unease he felt inside. There’s still a twinge, a whisper, _something_ tugging at him, insistent, but it fades the farther they walk away from the fortress, heading toward the sparkling blue expanse of the lake. “It’s beautiful,” Armitage says. 

And Ben forgets all of it then, except for the wonder in his voice. The smile he can’t quite keep from the corners of his mouth, how much that changes his face. The way the sunlight flickers in his bright hair. 

They head out into the trees together, following the shoreline, keeping the blue of the lake within view at all times. Staying in the sun, too, as Maz directed, the warmth of it gentle on their skin. They walk in silence like that. Companionable. It’s nice really, not to talk, given the amount of talking that’s happened already, that is happening right now. About _them_ , who might be pursuing them, dragging them back into what they’re trying to leave behind. About what to do next. The way adults always want to do.

“Do you think they’re right?” Armitage asks eventually. He hugs his arms against his chest, as though cold. They’re standing on an outcropping of rock overlooking the lake, the water glittering below them. “Do you think someone’s looking for you?”

“I don’t know,” Ben admits. “I know he’s still out there somewhere—“ _Snoke_ , and he doesn’t like to say his name aloud, not wanting to invite him back in. “—I don’t know if he’s moved on, found someone else like me.”

Armitage snorts, although it’s a mild sound, and the feeling behind it is clear, not unkind: _How many people are there like you?_

He coughs. “And you. Do you think—?” 

Han had asked him that once before, on the first morning, and his fear had been like ice water, like being tossed into a dark sea, a churning ocean, limbs thrashing, too weak to swim, to find the surface. 

He shakes his head. “No, they don’t. It’s not about individuals. They’re not—invested. He. They need numbers. They wouldn’t spend resources on one—on me.”

Ben wants to grab for his hand; in particular, he wants to take the one that’s rubbing his other arm, where his scar is, the symbol of the—the _Order_ , that’s how he thinks of it sometimes. He’s seen it, too, in his dreams, black on red banners. Hundreds of children standing at attention, repeating a litany, a promise to restore the glory of the Empire. He shivers. They both do.

“They’ll figure it out,” Ben says. “Maz knows just about everyone in the galaxy. And if not, there’s always Mom.“

But he had forgotten, almost, in the chaos about Leia. He’s been granted a reprieve of sorts, he understands, but they may also need her help now, her protection. And that means—

“Why don’t you want to see her?” Armitage asks, startling him. And no, he doesn’t have the Force, but he is observant, Ben knows, pays attention to people, tries to understand how they think, how they’ll react in a given situation. It’s a survival tactic, among other things. “I know you dream about her sometimes.”

Ben considers this, Leia coming to his mind’s eye, and the distant, twinkling sense of her in the Force. He’s always been able to find her, to feel her, even, she told him once, when he was only an infant, barely crawling. That connection existed well before he was born and yet, those rare times when they’re together—

“She wasn’t a bad mother,” he blurts, although Armitage hasn’t suggested this. “She was busy, it’s true, and I didn’t always understand, but I _knew_ she cared. She made sure I knew, even when she wasn’t there. It’s not that. I didn’t. I don’t hate her.”

He cocks his head, studying him. “You don’t want to see her, though,” he says. His mouth goes a little stubborn, as it does sometimes when he can’t work out a solution to an equation or can’t decide his next move in Dejarik. He’s frowning, and there’s something else under this line of questioning, something Ben can’t quite distinguish, an ache he doesn’t know the name for and has never felt. “You’re dreading it. Why?”

And it is like him, in some ways, to be this direct, to ask the central question, to get to the point. Less like him to inquire about anything so personal, his own circumstances making him especially sensitive, perhaps, to the need for secrets. But then, they’ve been sharing more lately. And for some reason, this matters to him. 

“I—it’s complicated,” Ben says. “ _She’s_ complicated. She’s this, hells. She’s a hero to almost everyone in the galaxy. Lost her home planet, her family, everything. Never stopped fighting, never stopped standing up to the Empire. Kept everyone else fighting, too. Gave them _hope_. She almost lost her brother, when she’d just found him, and my father more than a few times. But she never gave up, was never _tempted_. And I—“

He had _failed_ her. On the first real test, the choice between Light and Dark, right and wrong, and he had stumbled so badly he wasn’t fit to be a Jedi anymore. He doesn’t know how to face her, knowing that and her knowing it, too. And that feeling wells up in him again, familiar, that _dread_ as Armitage called it and not wrongly, the inexorable fear of being small, being _wrong_ , being inadequate, always. He takes several long, shuddering breaths, fists closing and unclosing as it passes through him

Snoke had promised him he was worthy, that he deserved it, all of what he would achieve, and how systems would tremble before him, the greatest Force user in a generation. Nothing would be denied him, not power, not love, not glory. He had promised him secrets, too, the keys to his destiny, although he never shared them.

“But—“ Armitage is protesting. Dogged.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Ben cuts him off. More harshly than he means to, defensive, not wanting to talk about this anymore, about Leia, or any of it. The sullen quality of his voice too easy, the ugliness that manifested at home, at school, on the _Falcon_ returning. His headache throbs back to life, pulsing behind his eyes. He feels raw, bruised, mind and spirit, and there’s still that sense of something pulling at him. Beckoning him. “You couldn’t.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; he knows that as soon as the words leave. Before he sees the hurt flash in Armitage’s eyes, anger coming after, quick as lightning. Before his face closes off altogether, cold. Disdainful. His lips thin; his eyes go gray. Flat. “Of course not, how could I?” he sneers. In an undertone, but still audible: “I never even _had_ a mother.”

Ben doesn’t have the chance to stammer out an apology; he’s already turned on his heel and stalked away into the trees, leaving him standing there. “ _Fuck_ ,” he mutters, then dashes after him, up the incline, back the way they came, or he thinks it is. But he doesn't see him, only green, only the thick of the forest around him and he hurries forward, deeper in. ”Armitage?”

When he turns around, the lake is gone, too.

The woods are quiet, just the odd call of a bird, but even those delicate trilling sounds slice, razor sharp, through the pain in his head. His vision is doubling, as though he’s seeing the forest through two sets of eyes. His own vision, unencumbered, and someone else’s, narrow and tinted. 

 _Ben_ , a voice whispers. Or voices. They seem to come from all directions, from the fortress and deeper into the trees. Cave voices, damp and gibbering. And the kind that creeps from under rocks and tree roots, the damp, close, lurking places of the universe. _Ben_.

It’s not Snoke; Snoke had stopped calling him that, had given him another name. But one or more of them _feel_ like him, cold and slithering and of the Dark.

 _Ben_. There’s another voice, hollow. Echoing. Mournful. 

The world spins around him, just green, and there’s nowhere to walk that won’t lead him somewhere shadowed, and the sunlight feels very far away just now. _The sunny spots_ , Maz had told him. But he doesn’t know where they are, where Armitage is, and he should find him and apologize. He didn’t mean to snap at him like that, not when he’s offered him every confidence, has put his trust in Ben entirely. He intended to do the same.

 _Ben_ , one of those underground voices says, wheedling him, oil slick. _This way_. Off the path, off into the trees, to some distant crevice, where he can rest, just be himself, not have to pretend for anyone—

“Ben!” his father is calling. He turns, finding the fortress again and the lake, the sun setting on the water. Not sure how long it’s been. He hadn’t gone far and he leaves that clamor behind him, following the one voice he knows won’t lead him astray.

 

* * *

 

Maz invites them to stay at the castle for a few nights, not that they have much choice in the matter. It’s clear from her face and his father’s that they don’t know enough to make a decision about what to do. And that they’re troubled. Ben’s seen adults look at him that way—concerned, pensive—for most of his life, although it’s been happening too often lately. He considers asking if they can sleep on the _Falcon_ instead. The feeling from the woods coils in his guts, icy, lingering, and it magnifies when he steps back in the keep. But he doesn’t know how to ask that without sounding childish or worrying them more.

Worse, after dinner, Armitage goes with Chewie to work on the _Falcon_ , not so much as glancing back when he does. He’ll need to say something, explain himself soon. It’s not that they’ve never had to apologize to each other, never accidentally put pressure on a hidden bruise, asked the wrong question, or pushed at the wrong time. This is different, though, a _new_ injury, what _Ben_ has done to him, unthinking as it was. They don’t hurt each other.

And yet.

He sits in the bar alone, tucked against the back wall, watching as the day’s activities shift into evening’s. It’s much the same: drinking, games, conspiring. A pang goes through him when he sees the sabacc table. His father avoids it, he notices; he plays a few rounds of a dice game before joining him in his corner.

“Feeling okay?”

He could explain, or try to, say _I had a fight with the one real friend I’ve ever made, and it was completely my fault. Oh, then something or someone tried to talk to me out in the woods, and I’m terrified I could still go Dark Side, after everything, but’s probably nothing._ “I’m just tired,” he says.

“Long day,” Han acknowledges. “Look, Ben, I don’t want you to worry about what we said before, about the ships. Whatever it is, we can handle it. We’ll keep you safe, keep Red safe, too.”

There was a time when he would have believed that implicitly, that his father was all he needed to stand between him and the ills of the universe. He still wants to, wants to think it’s as simple as Han Solo facing down the monsters in the night, their cruel claws and greedy eyes. But he’s  _felt_ Snoke, the magnitude of him, ancient and practiced and so, so powerful, almost too much even for Luke, and Snoke might only be the beginning, the first predator attracted to whatever poison remains inside him. _What is one smuggler on one small, battered freighter to the Dark Side?_

Ben can’t say that, _won’t._ He doesn’t remember the first time he understood, _knew_ that he could wound his father with the right words, the right tone. But he doesn’t want to do that now, still seeing the flash of hurt in Armitage’s eyes, the rejection there, so he only says, “Thanks, Dad.” And finds he means it.

“No problem.” He claps him on the shoulder. “Go get some rest, kid.” 

He’s stayed down here later than he thought, he realizes, Takodana’s moons arc above the tree line outside as he climbs the stairs. There’s still the faint chittering of that voice, plucking at him, luring him elsewhere, somewhere deep and cool. He shakes his head, banishing it. Not Snoke’s voice, he consoles himself.

Armitage is already tucked under the blankets when he comes into the room, although he’s left the window open, letting the moonlight and—most likely—the air in. He also, Ben notices, pushed the room’s two narrow beds together. Maybe not _so_ angry, then. He gets ready for sleep before crawling in next to him, feeling the mattress give under him, softer than both his bunk and his pallet at the Temple. It’s more space than they have on the _Falcon_ , too, and no need to press close the way they usually do, but Armitage still rolls toward Ben, unconscious of it, and curls an arm around him, his breathing gentle, slow, easy. 

“I’m sorry,” Ben murmurs.

His dreams begin innocuously enough; he dreams of the fight earlier, only the _Falcon_ ’s controls are suddenly much too big from him, and he’s too small, sitting in the pilot’s seat, unable to see through the viewport. He dreams of his mother, as he often does, of her face and her hand on his brow and her voice, lulling him. (Sometimes he thinks they may not only be dreams.) He dreams of Armitage, that he’s trying to explain something to him, but it keeps coming out in Shyriiwook, and he repeats _I don’t understand, Ben_ until he walks away again, leaving him alone on a hill. 

He’s in the woods, then, at night, and fog spreads opaque over the ground, swirling heavy across the stone and earth and obscuring everything. The voice from earlier calls to him again, lilting, melodic, cajoling. _What do you want_ , he tries to ask, but the fog climbs down his throat, choking him. 

Ben sits up, not fast, not alert, but in a kind of daze. It’s later, he thinks, the middle of the night now, both moons high in the sky and so bright. But they’re not calling him; someone else is. He doesn’t quite feel connected to his body as he climbs out of bed. Distantly hears Armitage protest, half-awake. “Ben?” he asks. 

He can’t feel the stones under his bare feet as he steps out into the hallway. Blinks. He’s on the _Falcon_ , creeping out of bed to investigate a noise; he’s back at the Temple, walking up the hill for evening meditation; he’s here in the pirate queen’s fortress on Takodana simultaneously. He follows the stairs down, first to the bar, which is dark, empty, abandoned, even Maz’s faithful old protocol droid retired for the night, while a few sodden regulars snore under their benches. 

He descends deeper then, following another wending stairway into the basement, the oldest part of the castle, a long hallway of sealed rooms. The voice lures him on and on, whispers _here_ , _here_ until he’s standing in front of a durasteel door. It slides upward, as though inviting him inside.

The interior is cluttered with what looks like piles of junk but, knowing Maz, is probably precious bounty from all over the galaxy, artifacts long outlasting their civilizations. He ignores most of it in favor of a small, wooden box. It reminds him faintly of Chewie, of rain in the trees on Kashyyyk, when he touches the lid. Then it springs open under his hands, and he forgets everything else, where he is and his fear, all of it, when he sees the lightsaber inside. The metal is cold against his palm as he picks it up, so much so that it burns him, but that’s secondary to the visions that swarm through him, separately and all at once. 

_Luke, much younger, screaming in pain as he falls into an abyss._

_A man, glowing blue as moonlight, sitting in the gloom._

_His mother, floating, no,_ flying _through empty space, her tears, sparkling, frozen, and somehow she’s looking at him or for him, eyes mournful._

 _The man opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges._   

 _Snoke’s voice, creeping over him as he sleeps, whispering that name, the one he’s never spoken out loud: Kylo Ren_.

_His father, holding his hand out to him, telling him to come home._

_“Ben,” he’s trying to say, this stranger he doesn’t recognize_.

 _Someone is breathing, rasping_ , _voice heavy through machinery._

_“Ben.”_

_Luke is standing over him, resolute, face sickly green in the glare from his lightsaber._

(Not this lightsaber. It’s blue, he knows, without igniting it.)

_“Ben.”_

“ _You can’t deny the truth that is your family_ ,” _an old man is saying. Defiant. Defying_ him. _And how dare he, how dare he mention_ them _._

“Ben.”

He startles, finding himself back in the room, still clutching his uncle’s (his _grandfather’s_ ) lightsaber. The man is there, the one from his vision, and he understands that if he tried to touch him, his hands would pass right through. His face flickers between young and old, the former lean and scarred, the latter round-cheeked and at peace. “But you’re—“ Ben says.

“That’s right,” he replies. His smile is all regret.

“Then this is yours.” He extends the hilt to him.

But he shakes his head. “Not anymore. Not for a long time.” And there’s a flash of an image, or two images, one blending with the other: the Temple burning and the cries of children, his classmates and other young ones from long ago, their pain echoing across decades. The smell of burnt flesh, pungent. Terrible. That had been the vision that had sent him to Luke, nauseated. Frightened. “Not yours either,” the ghost says. Sadly, Ben thinks. But everything about him is sad, this afterimage of the man he was. “Sorry about that. It’s probably for the best.”

“But what do I do now?”

“Only you can answer that question.”

“Great. Thanks for your help,” he replies, sarcastic, but the ghost makes no answer. 

Ben studies the weapon in his hand. It’s an older design than his own, from before the Republic fell and the Empire rose. He feels the weight of it, so cold.

“ _Give it to me_ ,” _he’s demanding of someone he can’t see, someone he_ hates. _The landscape blue with snow around them. His own lightsaber, crackling red in his hands. The wind stings his face. Usually, it’s covered, under his—_

 _He’s sitting on a hill in the grass, talking to a group of sentients, many of them children. It’s not the Temple, but they’re discussing the Force, and his audience is bright-eyed, avid_.

_Pain flares hot in his side. He’s bleeding in the snow. Dark spatters the white as he punches the wound._

_He’s standing in the sunlight with Armitage. Smiling at him. Mouth warm from just having kissed him. Blue tile_.

 _His grandfather’s lightsaber swings down, the blade catching his face, his chest. Agony as he stumbles backward, collapsing into a snowbank_.

_His own lightsaber in his hand again. He ignites it, brings the white blade up to meet green, the two clashing with a frizz of energy._

_“Grandfather,” he whispers to the empty sky. The world is buckling under him, trying to throw him off its surface or else swallow him, red-hot fissures opening around him._

_A girl’s voice. Young. Hesitant. “Is that mine?”_

_“That’s right, my apprentice,” Snoke whispers in his ear. He’s looking up at Luke, shaken by the loathing in his eyes. And his uncle has never looked at him that way, even after— “He never believed in you, always saw you for what you were. Now claim the power that is your birthright, as the true scion of Darth Vader_.”

_Luke is sitting, of all places, at his kitchen table, holding a beer. Condensation runs down the glass. The regret in his eyes. “We always meant to tell you.”_

_He’s so cold, snow soaking into his clothes, his face and shoulder and side throbbing, and he can’t breathe, his chest tight. He’s going to die here, he’s—_

“Ben!” A grip locks, vise-like around his chest, and _that’s_ why he can’t breathe. It’s Armitage, clutching at him. Saying his name again and again. Frantic.

"Kriff," he wheezes. “Ribs, Armie.” Takes a deep breath when his hold loosens. Once his vision clears, he stares, wild, around the room, but it’s empty. Not ghosts. No frozen dying planet. The lightsaber isn’t in his hand either; the box where he found it sits closed. His, he remembers, is back in the room. Whatever color it is now.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Armitage says. Relief splintering his voice. “I found him!” he calls over his shoulder. “You _disappeared_ ,” he accuses Ben. As though he did it on purpose.

His emotions are a jumble, hitting Ben squarely in the gut, fear and worry and anger and confusion and pain, too, his _face_ —and he twists in his grip to look at him, the marks already darkening on his cheek. “Shit, did I—?“ 

Armitage smooths his hands over his hair, down his face, his neck. Not cognizant, maybe, of the way he’s touching Ben, insistent, as though to confirm he’s real, he’s _here_. He shrugs. “When you were thrashing around before.”  

“I’m sorry,” he says. Trying to cradle his jaw, to get a better look at it, but Armitage twists out of his grip, intent on checking _him_ over. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” he laughs, obviously shaken. “Ben, you’re kriffing _freezing_ , you looked like you were having some sort of _seizure_ , and—fuck, am _I_ okay? Fuck. Honestly.” His fingers are hot on his skin, although, no, it’s that he is so cold, chilled through.

Before he can answer, there’s the sound of boots beating down the hallway outside, and then his father is there, sinking to his knees next to them, checking him over, too, searching for bruises, broken bones, looking into his eyes to see if he’s concussed. “Ben, thank _stars_ , are you all right?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” he says. Enduring these attentions, as he has often before. “I’m okay.”

Han doesn’t bother to separate them, wrapping his arms around him and Armitage both and yanking them close for a hug. It’s not long before Chewie finds them, too, and Ben’s never been more grateful, maybe in his whole life, for the length of a Wookiee’s arms, enough to hold all of them together.

“Good boys,” Han is saying over and over. “Good boys.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand,” Armitage repeats next to him. “You _saw_ Anakin Skywalker?” 

They’re back in the bar upstairs, sitting at one of the long tables, Maz in her housecoat and her goggles. She’s given them all steaming mugs of sweetened milk. Ben brackets his cup with his hands, letting the warmth seep into them from the clay. He’s still cold, even with the blanket draped over his shoulders, even with Armitage sitting close.

“The ghost of Anakin Skywalker,” Ben confirms. “My grandfather. And Darth Vader.” He gives Han a pointed look. 

Strange, in some ways, how it doesn’t feel like a revelation, almost like he’s been expecting it since Snoke started whispering in his ear. That he’s been marked for this, somehow, because of who his family is. That the Dark would always be scratching under the door, reaching for him, grasping. That it _was_ destined.

Armitage’s hand finds his under the table. It’s not like before, when he lent him his calm without knowing. This is simpler, just touch, just something to hang onto long enough to remember—he doesn’t have to believe in destiny. He never did.

“That wasn’t my call, kid.” His father raises both hands in surrender. “Not my family secret to spill.”

“You still knew,” he says. Trying not to sound sulky and failing. 

“Trust me, I wish I didn’t.” He sighs and rubs his face. Weary. “Your mother and Luke thought it would be best to wait until you were older, when you could understand. When they could help you through it. She was going to tell you on Chandrila.”

“So much for that.” He folds his arms. Feeling stubborn. Not _wanting_ to be reasonable, not when he’s the one hearing voices, having visions, being _lied to_. “Guess this ruined your plans then.”

“Kid, the plans went out the airlock a while ago, and you know it. At this point, I’m just guessing.”

“But the lightsaber called to you,” Maz interjects. “That’s good news.”

“It _rejected_ me,” Ben corrects her. Resenting that more than he thought he would, given that he's made his choices. “Anakin said it wasn’t his or mine. It’s waiting for someone else.” He shakes his head, thinking of the voice he heard, a child’s voice. “Of course it is. I’m not going to be a Jedi. The Light Side doesn’t want me, why should Luke’s lightsaber.”

Maz climbs onto the table, then, and stomps toward him in her slippers, rattling the cups. Takes his chin in both of her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. “The Light doesn’t abandon people, Ben Solo. It’s still with you. It may be stronger with you than ever, in fact.” She considers him, studying his face. “The Dark is there, too, it’s true. But that’s not all there is to you. And you don’t have to be a Jedi to feel connected to the Force.” Finally, she releases him, climbs back down again. “Now, you said your lightsaber turned white? In your vision?”

“Yeah. I was—practicing. I think. With someone else. Not a real fight.” A relief, considering the other person was wielding a green weapon. That meant—well, he wouldn’t be an _enemy_ of the Jedi, at least. Maybe. “What does that mean? I thought the kyber crystals _always_ changed color after they were chosen.”

She strokes her chin. “It is unusual. Not unheard of—a few weapons like that have come through here over the years. Not much is known, even by the Jedi, about the significance of the color. Less still about the kyber that stays or turns white. Have you used it since you left the Temple? Your lightsaber?”

He had ignited it twice—the first day, to check that it hadn’t turned red and again later, when he showed Armitage how it worked. (He had wanted to take it apart, predictably.) Both times, it glowed blue. 

“But in my other vision, it _was_ red.” He shudders, remembering.

“You may have only been seeing possible futures, partial truths, the remnants of what could have been and what can be now. The Force doesn’t give us complete pictures or handy directions,” Maz tells him. Voice amused. “You’ve stepped onto a new path, away from the Dark Side. I think it’s safe to say no one can predict what will happen, even you.”

“You can see _the future_?” Armitage hisses, in an undertone. 

“Not very well.” Ben shrugs. Thinking of the vision he’d seen of them together. Happy. _That one_ , he decides all at once, _That’s the one I want. Fuck the rest of it._ To Maz, he says, “But I don’t have a way to study the Force. I don’t have a teacher or a Master.” No one to show him the way, to lead him out of the Dark, which never seems to be far off. 

 _“I_ never had a school or a Master,” Maz points out. “The Force still works through me. I still see it and feel it. There are many ways of being at one with the universe’s energy, Ben Solo. The Jedi are one. The Sith another. But countless others exist across the galaxy. You need only seek them out.”

“Is that—“ his father starts to say, his face thoughtful. He's been uncharacteristically quiet. “Maz, can you help with that?”

She frowns. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Not a school,” he says. “Or an apprenticeship. Just some guidance. About the Force. Maybe you could introduce him to some other ways of thinking about it. I know you know people.”

Ben stares at him. “Are you saying you want to leave me here?” _You’re leaving me_ again? he doesn’t ask.

“Not permanently,” he hurries to explain. “A few months out of the year at most. We can see if we can find someone else, on another planet, maybe in the Core if you want. Your mother will be able to help.”

“No,” Ben says quickly. “I mean, I don’t need to live in the Core. But—“ He looks at Maz. “Could you? Really help me?”

“I’m not a teacher,” she says slowly. “And I don’t need an apprentice. But if you earn your keep, help out around here, you’re welcome to stay a while. And you’re guaranteed to meet some interesting people. So. If you would like to—”

“Are you kriffing kidding?” Armitage interrupts. Stops, looking as shocked as any of them by his own outburst, before he continues. “You want Ben to stay in the place where _he hears voices_ and _sees ghosts_ and has visions of the future so horrific _he has bloody fits_? For a few months out of the year?” He scowls at Han, at the room in general. “That’s _mad_.”

“Armitage,” Ben says. Reaching to pat him on the arm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ ,” he insists, voice strained. And he’s pressed up against Ben’s side like an unhappy felinx. Is shaking a little now, too. His feelings are difficult to parse, Ben’s senses still muddled from before, but it’s safe to say if he _was_ a felinx, he’d be puffed up to twice his size. “Fuck that. _I’m_ not leaving you here. I won’t.” 

And _that_ sends a jolt of pure warmth right through him.

“Oh-ho, you’re staying, too, now, are you?” Maz asks, amused.

“Where Ben goes, I go,” Armitage says. Firmly. Eyes darkening before he falters. “Er, that is, if—“

“All right, all right,” Maz waves him off. “I’ve heard all about you, little tinkerer. There's more than enough for you to fix around here.” She turns to Han. “You’re turning this place into a home for lost children.”

“It’s not the first time it’s been that,” Han points out. “But they’re not lost. They’re only visiting.” 

“Throw in Chewbacca, and you’ve got a deal.” Maz leans back in her chair. 

“You know damn well he goes where he chooses.”  

“And he chooses to follow you around. For whatever reason,” she chuckles. “Can’t blame me for trying.” 

“ _We’ll come visit, too, Maz, I promise_ ,” Chewie tells her. “ _Both of us._ ”

Han turns to look at him in apparent surprise. “Is that a fact?”

“ _You’ll want to check on Ben and Red anyway_.”

His father makes no reply to that, only mutters, “Wookiees. Think they know so much.”

“ _I do, though_.”

“Oh,” Maz says, interrupting. “I was going to tell you in the morning, but those ships earlier were hired guns. Nothing personal, just protecting the interests of the company. I confirmed it with my sources on Kiffu.”

“Greed is still the dominant force in the galaxy,” Han reflects, his cynicism offset by the clear relief in his voice. “Thanks for checking up on it.”

“I’ll keep listening, though.” She stands, stretching. “In the meantime, however, we should all get some rest. I need to figure out chores for young Ben and young Armitage tomorrow.” Her eyes twinkle behind her goggles. 

“Night, Maz.” 

They’re all getting up to leave when Ben feels the same impulse from before: to return to the _Falcon_. It’s quieter in the castle now, it’s true, the ghost that needed his attention departed, but he doesn’t want to stay here tonight, not after everything that’s happened and not if his father might be leaving them here. And this time, he decides, he’ll say so. “Dad?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Can we sleep out by the _Falcon_?”

“Camp under the stars, you mean?” He regards him for a beat. Expression open. Fond. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” Meaning for that and everything else. He thinks his father hears it. He hopes he does.

Moonlight is kinder to the old ship than most, not illuminating the dings and the scorch marks so starkly. She doesn’t look new, not by any means, but more like what she is— _a home_ , although none of them have gone so far as to call her that. A tension he didn’t know he’d been holding onto loosens in him as they approach, and he looks over at Armitage, feeling an answering ease in him, his face soft in the starlight.

 _You came to rescue me_ , Ben wants to say, awed, thinking of the sharp-voiced stowaway who’d sneered at him all those weeks ago, practically daring him to chuck him out an airlock. Wonders if either of them would have believed it then, although maybe that doesn’t matter. They’re here, whatever thousand small steps and minute decisions have brought them to this point. 

They set about making camp, building a fire and laying out bedrolls, sheltering by the _Falcon_ , her bulk sitting over them, safe and familiar, more so, Ben thinks, than anywhere he’s ever lived, Chandrila or the Temple. They’re about to settle in when Han suggests, “Why don’t you grab the holoprojector, Ben? Pick a ‘drama to put on. Something light.” 

Armitage starts to go with him—unwilling, it seems, to let him out of his sight just yet—but Chewie stops them, saying, “ _Wait a moment_.” 

He sweeps Armitage up into a classic Wookiee hug, warbling a long string of apologies and thanks.

“Ah. Ben. What’s happening?” Armitage asks, voice muffled by thick fur. He’s not struggling, is hanging limply in the embrace.

“Er—he says he’s sorry for calling you a ‘little Imperial thug,’” Ben translates, plucking out one sentence out of the list. “He’s glad you’re around.”

“He called me a _what_?” Armitage asks. “When?”

“Well,” he says. “All the time—kind of.”

“Wait. Is _that_ what _wuuh aarrragghuuhw raaaaaahhgh uggguh_ means?” he demands.

“Yeah. What did you think it meant?”

“I thought it meant Armitage! Or Red!”

“You thought _wuuh aarrragghuuhw raaaaaahhgh uggguh_ meant _red_?”

“It’s not an intuitive language, Ben!” Armitage snaps.

Chewie chuffs laughter and squeezes him one more time before releasing him. “ _You’re a good pup, Red. You and Ben will be a happy match, when he finally kills a quillarat for you._ “

“ _Uncle Chewie._ ” Ben flushes to his roots and grabs Armitage’s hand, pulling him away.

 _“If you’re going to choose a mate, you should do it properly,_ ” Chewie calls after them. _“It’s for life, after all.”_

“What’s he saying?”

“That you’re family now, blah, blah, blah, the usual Wookiee stuff. Let’s, um. Let’s go get the holoprojector. Do you want to watch _Flight of the Porgs_ again?”

They’ve reached the top of the loading ramp, just inside the cargo bay, when Armitage tugs on his hand. Slowing, then stopping him. “Ben.”

“Yeah?"

“Can we—? I mean.” He fidgets, looking down and then back up at him. “I, uh. Before. In that room. You scared me.”

And Ben’s chest clenches, thinking about that. More when he sees the faint beginnings of bruises on Armitage’s cheek. He reaches for them again, then curls his fingers, withdrawing. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful—seeing that—and I—I hurt you. I’m sorry,” he repeats. Although it doesn’t feel like enough, for that or what he said earlier. Wishing more than anything he could take it all back.

He shakes his head, makes an exasperated noise. “No, no, not—never mind that. I’m fine. It was an accident. It’s just. I wasn’t afraid _of_ you, understand? I was.” He swallows. “I was afraid _for_ you.”

Ben stills, watching him, trying to discern what he’s trying to say. 

“I was _worried_ about you,” Armitage confesses. Gaze skittering over Ben’s face, not settling. His cheeks are pink, rosy. “I. Waking up and. You weren’t there. I didn’t like it,” he says, as though he’s trying to explain it to himself as well as Ben. To identify and catalog how he felt, like it’s unrecognizable, alien, like he doesn’t yet have the words for it. “I feel _better_ when you’re around. And it’s not only what you can—it’s _you_ , Ben. This, all of it, doesn’t seem so impossible if we’re together.”

He thinks about how tightly Armitage had held him before. His hand around his. No power in the galaxy beyond that, but he’s here, Ben is, not drifting lost, chasing voices, not lying half-frozen in the snow. That has to count for something, too.

And no, it’s not a revelation, really. Although they’ve never said as much, in so many words that they care about each other, it’s evident, isn’t it. No one would comfort someone through a nightmare, let alone dozens, if they didn’t _care._ Even out of a feeling of obligation, of reciprocity, although if he’s honest, he had thought, had _wondered_ if—but it doesn’t necessarily mean anything more than that, more than friendship, a certain shared understanding, both of their lives upended, although for the best, and—

Armitage leans over, then, tilting his head. Kisses Ben very deliberately on the cheek. 

Silvery. Bright. That’s what it had felt like in the Force when he kissed him on the _Falcon_ , and isn’t it an eternity since then? But this. It’s the same.

“Oh,” Ben says dumbly. Understanding now. “Um. Me too.”

“I know,” Armitage replies quietly. His blush darkening. “So.“

“So,” he whispers. Leaning in. Eyes searching his. “I—can I?”

Ben waits those long endless seconds for him to nod quickly, eager, before he kisses him. Makes an involuntary noise, in relief, amazement, satisfaction, against his lips. They _are_ soft, he can say for certain now, the touch of them still tingling on his cheek, on his mouth, too, warm and sweet. 

Ben curls both hands around his waist, drawing him in, feeling a little like he’s forgotten what few things he knows about kissing, like he’s learning again with Armitage, and that’s fine, it’s _good_ , discovering how he wants to be kissed. And he doesn’t cheat, he lets him show him. Presses smaller kisses over his face, catching the corner of his mouth again, the dimple where he’s smiling. Returns to his lips, and they part under his. He loses himself in it, no thoughts of the Force or his future or any of it, just chasing the heat and taste of Armitage’s mouth. There's no sense of time either, none at all, no ticking seconds, only this moment: indefinite and complete.

Armitage's breath huffs against his cheek when they separate for air, and he leans against him, face still red, lips slightly puffy.

“Good?” Ben asks. Feeling the glow of it, his contentment in the Force, but wanting to hear it.

“Very good,” he murmurs. “You?”

He kisses him again by way of answer. Could spend the rest of the night, the rest of his life, kissing him, except—

“You two alive up there?” Han calls, and Armitage startles, pulling away from him. And that, that is unacceptable after the day they’ve had.

Ben makes a quick gesture with one hand, reaching out with the Force, his connection to it still strong, still easy, and the loading ramp of the _Millennium Falcon_ groans closed below them, shutting out everything beyond it, every unanswered question, every fear, and every searching eye. 

Then it’s just him and the boy in his arms and the ship where they live. And they have all the time in the galaxy.

 

* * *

 

 

_I’ve come here to insist, that I leave here with a kiss._

Joe Pug, “Hymn #101”

**Author's Note:**

> And that is where we will leave them (for now).
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's followed along with this (impromptu!) little series. I'll post a note [on tumblr](https://callmelyss.tumblr.com) about what's next for these two later this week. Please feel free to say hello there and yell about headcanons for future adventures, if you like.
> 
>  **Update** : [Here's](https://callmelyss.tumblr.com/post/177905327130/moodboard-the-stranger-that-you-keep-by) the post about the future of the series.
> 
> <3


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